


Close as Clasped Hands

by inlovewithnight



Category: Valdemar Series - Mercedes Lackey
Genre: Animal Husbandry, Gen, Horses, the poorly-kept secrets of Velgarth theology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 07:26:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13049325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: Late spring on the Plains is a gentle season.





	Close as Clasped Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arduinna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arduinna/gifts).



Kethry concentrates, her brow furrowing as she explains to the air elemental what she wants it to do. They’re simple, amiable beings who want to please, in general, but their understanding of flesh and blood is limited. Trying to guide this one to the notion of telling her if there’s a small horse growing inside of the full-grown horse in front of them is stretching its comprehension to the limit.

Tarma rests her head against the mare’s neck. “Looks like it would be easier just to palpate her, Keth.”

“This is cleaner. And since there’s a whole herd of others to check, it will be faster, once I get the concept across.” The air elemental drifts in a circle around her head, sending a constant stream of puzzlement. Kethry sends the same image again, more firmly. Big horse, with a little horse inside her? Or none?

The elemental hesitates, then circles the mare, drifting close to her belly and then back out again. It moves toward Tarma, circling her with another stream of puzzlement to Kethry, then settles over the mare’s back and sends a firm image of a small horse within a larger one, both pulsing with the same heartbeat.

“Pregnant,” Kethry says, shaking her hair free from its half-fallen braid. “Absolutely pregnant.”

Tarma raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure it’s not just parroting back what you told it?”

“It has them sharing a heartbeat. I didn’t tell it that.”

“Hm.” Tarma shrugs out of her jacket and takes a jar of ointment from her bag. “I’m going to palpate her just to be certain, but if she is in foal, then I’ll take your ghost’s word for it on the rest of the herd. Fair?”

“It’s not a ghost.” Kethry primly pulls her hair back and binds it in place again. “It’s an air elemental. You know that.”

“We’re on the Plains now, I’ll call things what my people tend to call them.” Tarma’s smiling despite the tart words. She slicks her arm from fingers to elbow and nods at the mare. “Hold her head, the poor love is going to object to this.”

Kethry does as she’s told, a matching smile rising on her own face. She wouldn’t need Tarma to tell her that they’re on the Plains even if she had just awoken from a magical slumber: the peace in her companion’s face, body, and very aura would have given it away. Tarma is _home_ , gloriously so, and reveling in it.

The mare does start when Tarma pushes her hand inside to feel her uterus, but she’s been well-trained and gently handled since birth, and she accepts Kethry’s soothing touches. The air elemental, not yet dismissed, continues circling their little group in slow arcs that make the women’s hair dance and the mare flick her ears back and forth in curiosity. It isn’t a moment that Kethry ever would have pictured herself living, but here, now, she can’t imagine being anywhere else.

Tale’sedrin isn’t quite reborn, not yet; the herds are still under care of Liha’irden, and the Shin’a’in who have pledged themselves to the Hawk’s banner are still living with their home Clans, making plans and arrangements through this cycle of seasons so they can gather together and begin life as a reborn clan next spring. Tarma has taken her place as Herdmaster of Tale’sedrin, though, and so they’re here on the Plains for the breeding season, overseeing the crosses and doing all they can to ensure that Tale’sedrin’s first crop of foals and calves of its new life embody a strong beginning.

Kethry doesn’t know a damn thing about animal husbandry. But at least she can call elementals in so Tarma doesn’t have to spend the _entire_ day up to her elbow in horse.

“Well, count me in as believing in your air ghosts.” Tarma pulls away from the horse and starts scraping her arm clean with a bit of deerskin. “We’ll do the rest of the mares your way, and thank the Lady for it. Much less chance of me getting kicked.”

“Less invasive for them, too, I think.” Kethry takes a dried flower from her pocket and crushes it between her fingers; the scent is all the payment the air elemental needs to stay around and keep helping. 

“It’s not very Shin’a’in to do things the easy way.” Tarma laughs and shakes her head. “But I won’t tell the shamans if you don’t. Come on, love, we’ve still got our work ahead of us.”

They spend the rest of the afternoon cutting this year’s breeding mares out from the herd, coaxing the elemental’s attention to them, and then marking the mares’ flanks with dye if they aren’t pregnant yet. 

Tarma squints up at the sky when they finish with the last of the mares. “The herd riders and I will take them to be covered again tomorrow. You can have the day to yourself; I know I haven’t give you nearly enough time for your studies lately.”

Kethry smiles; in the early years of their partnership it would have been impossible to imagine Tarma apologizing for that. Now that her clan’s rebirth is in reach, so much of the frantic drive and tension and fear have left her, making room for other things to grow. Or grow back, more accurately. She can reclaim what was taken from her so long ago, and Kethry is so thankful to see it.

She feels a tingle at the edge of her mage-senses, not quite familiar but something she has met before: Tarma’s Star-Eyed Lady and her silent approval. It’s strange to draw even the edge of a god’s attention, stranger still to have it be over shared love for a mortal person, and yet here they are. 

_Things work differently on the Plains_ , Kethry thinks, and feels the Star-Eyed’s presence go bright with laughter before it turns away to other things.

Tarma is looking at her oddly when she comes back to the present. “What were you thinking about? You were so far away for a moment there.”

“Just happy that things are coming together,” Kethry says honestly. “Soon you’ll have your clan, and we’ll have our school, and everything we’ve worked for will finally be in place.”

“Gods willing.” Tarma shifts her bag of supplies higher on her arm and they start the walk back to where they left their mares with the Liha’irden herd rider. “Shall I give you privacy tonight to speak with Jadrek?”

“There’s nothing we say in private that you haven’t heard a dozen times, is there?”

“Ah, but do I _want_ to hear it again, is the question, dearheart—” Tarma dodges Kethry’s outraged slap and jogs off across the grass, her rough laughter ringing outward to the endless sky.

**

It didn’t occur to Kethry to think about the battlesteeds. Tarma has told her many times about the special breeding that goes into the beasts, that the Shin’a’in track their pedigrees as closely as the lineages of every member of the Clans. She knows that the side effects of breeding for particular traits have come in the form of slow and infrequent breeding cycles, and the strange gender disparity that makes males a rare and precious commodity that can never leave the Plains.

It simply never occurred to her that that would _affect_ her in any particular way.

“You don’t have to come,” Tarma says, sounding surprised at the very idea. “Of course you can stay here with Liha’irden. The shaman is happy to work with you if you like, or to keep providing you with space and supplies if you’d rather study alone. There’s no need for you to ride along all the way to Jor’ethan’s grazing grounds.”

“What kind of she’enedra would I be if I sent you off alone?” Kethry shakes her head and starts braiding up her hair, as if they’re leaving this moment instead of two mornings hence. It’s symbolic, if anything; showing Tarma that she means it. “Of course I’ll come with you.”

“It’s not a scouting mission or even a job, Keth, it’s just taking a few of the battle mares to be covered.” Tale’sedrin happened not to have a battlesteed stud to its name, and there were two mares who showed signs of heat this season. According to the records, the stallion they were best suited to be bred by was held by Bear Clan, who ought to be a good four day’s ride from their current grazing grounds this time of year. 

“I’ll come with you,” Kethry says again, binding the end of her braid off with a flourish. “It’ll be nice to be on a journey without the chance of death at the end of it.”

“We just rode _here_.” Tarma pauses and tilts her head, her eyes going distant in the way that means she’s speaking mind-to-mind with Warrl. Kethry waits, hairpins in her hand, until Tarma’s attention comes back to the space inside the tent instead of the comfortably-trampled grass outside it.

“Furface agrees with me, doesn’t he?” Kethry pins a braid up into place without bothering to hide her satisfaction.

“He says there’s no reason to argue over something trivial just for the satisfaction of being right.” Tarma sighs. “Especially when one might not even _be_ right, because it’s too trivial for there to be a right or wrong to consider.”

“That sounds like the Warrl we both love.”

Tarma rolls her eyes. “He returns the affection. Very well, then. Two days’ time, and you’ll need to be packed and ready for four days in the saddle, camping rough. All of which you hate, but this was your choice.”

“Yes, yes, you do the wise old auntie act well. You’re more than ready to torment our students.”

Tarma sketches a bow and lets herself out of the tent, closing up the flap behind her, and Kethry allows herself a moment to revel in her victory before she pins up the rest of her hair and goes looking for her travel packs.

Warrl is right; it _is_ a very trivial victory. And Tarma is right; she _does_ hate everything about this sort of trip. But something in her gut urged her to accompany Tarma on the journey, and what kind of an Adept would she be if she didn’t trust her instincts? 

The White Winds school had a firm answer for that: no kind of Adept, no kind of _mage_ at all.

**

Late spring was the most beautiful time for a ride across the Plains, and Kethry would freely admit that she enjoyed nearly every moment of this one. The heat is pleasant instead of punishing as it will be in high summer; the grasses ranges in delicate shades from lavender to deepest green, instead of standing in sun-bleached lines that hurt the eyes; and everything is alive with birdsong and rebirth. The amount of pure, flowing life-energy that crosses her skin is enough that if she wasn’t careful, she could get drunk on it.

She and Tarma trade off between riding the battlesteeds and a pair of older, easygoing Shin’a’in bloodstock who seem to be enjoying the change in routine. When they’re out from under saddle and just carrying the supply packs, they flirt their tails and dance at the end of the leading-lines, lifting their heads to sniff the wind. They’re well-trained enough to keep themselves in check when they’re being ridden—they wouldn’t be Shin’a’in stock otherwise—but Kethry can feel them quivering under her seat and hands, begging to stretch out into a run.

She and Tarma let them, every so often. It’s good for all six of them, body and soul.

“I know it’s not always like this,” Kethry says on the third night, as they set up their little campsite. “You’ve told me enough stories about the harsh times out on the Plains. But this has been wonderful.”

“It has.” Tarma pauses in cutting out a hole in the sod for the fire and tilts her head back to look at the sky. “I’m glad you’re seeing it like this. This is what I hold in my heart when we’re away.”

Kethry finishes laying out the bedrolls and goes to sit beside her. “Can I ask what’s probably a very foolish question about this trip?”

“Of course.”

“Why are they only being bred now? You did the other horses for the first time nearly a month ago.”

“Oh, well.” Tarma goes back to cutting sod. “More peculiarities of the breed. They carry the same length of time as other horses, but the foals are more delicate, almost unfinished. It’s better if they’re born after the spring storms, so we try to hold the breeding back a bit later.”

“Interesting.” Kethry picks at the edge of her thumbnail and frowns. “I wish I had focused more of my studies on healing. The physical side, I mean, anatomy and how bodies _work_ , organs and limbs and everything. I feel like the battlesteeds alone could take up an entire life of study.”

“More than that. We’ve been breeding them since the Plains were young and still don’t have them figured out.” Tarma snaps her firestarter over the kindling, then bends and blows into it.

“I can light that for you, you know! What’s the point of traveling with a witch if you won’t take advantage?”

“I’m old-fashioned.” The kindling blooms into flame and Tarma sits up with a smile. “You can put a _jesto-vath_ on the bedrolls, though, if you’re so eager to spend energy.”

“This place is an endless wellspring of energy.” Kethry reluctantly gets up again and goes to get their rations. “But as you wish it, oh scoutmaster. Trailmaster? Whatever kind of master you are on this excursion.”

Tarma snorts. “And don’t forget it… ah, ah, no throwing things, she’enedra, you’ll scare the horses…”

**

The Bear Clan welcomes them with polite greetings and a blissful lack of ceremony. They’re shown where to tether their battlesteeds and saddle horses, given a tent and time to refresh themselves, then shown to a hearty dinner with the Jor’ethan herdmaster, Anitra.

“I’ve been expecting you,” she says, settling back on her heels by the fire as they finish their meal. “Wasn’t sure how many mares you would be bringing, but I knew it was Tale’sedrin’s turn at the boy this year.”

“Only two showed signs of heat this year.” Tarma shrugs and sets her bowl aside. “It’s as their nature wills it, I suppose.”

“They do things their own way.” Anitra shakes her head. “Well, Blockhead is able and willing, so the job will get done and with any luck you’ll have two fine foals next year.”

Kethry frowns. “Blockhead?” That’s not at all the way Shin’a’in normally talk about horses, their beloved younger siblings.

Anitra makes a gesture of apology. “His name in the records is Cloudheart. And he’s a good boy, really he is. Physically a perfect specimen. Sires strong, healthy foals. He’s just…”

“Stubborn?” Kethry hazards.

“Stupid.” 

It’s Tarm’s turn to frown. “That goes against what we’re breeding for. Intelligence is the aim.”

“It doesn’t affect the foals at all that we’ve seen. They all seem to take after their mothers and go along just fine. It’s not like the stud Pretera’sedrin had ten or fifteen years ago—you remember? They had to geld him in the end.”

Tarma shakes her head. “Such a loss.” 

Kethry nudges Tarma with her toe. “What happened?”

“Ah, they had a battlesteed stallion, gorgeous creature. Dappled, with black points, eighteen hands tall, solid as stone. But he had some kind of weakness in the blood. His foals all were born weak and sick and died in a few days. Entire seasons of stock were lost before they had to give up on him.” 

Both the Clanswomen bow their heads in grief, while Kethry blinks slowly and tries to muster a look of appropriate sympathy. Sometimes the reminder that she and Tarma are from different worlds arrives suddenly and sharply, even after all this time.

“We don’t have that problem with Block—Cloudheart.” Anitra forces a smile. “They’re born healthy, they grow up strong, they’re as clever and trainable as their mothers. We won’t follow this bloodline too far down the path, though.”

“True, the next generation loops back to Eagle Clan’s stock, probably the older stud if he’s still in good health...” 

They both look more than ready to veer off into conversation about bloodlines and breeding for traits until the fire dies out, if not later. Kethry carefully gets to her feet. “Thank you for the dinner,” she says, gesturing that they both should stay seated. “I know the way to the tent. And I’ll check on the horses, too, she’enedra, no need for you to go out…”

Tarma’s smile sets a warm spark alight in Kethry’s belly, and she smiles as she walks to where the horses are staked out to graze overnight. She can feel the familiar magic tingle of Warrl’s presence pacing her as she walks, just out of sight but not out of reach, even in the safety of a Shin’a’in encampment. She knows without asking that he’ll shadow her until she’s safe in their tent, then return to Tarma. 

_I need to do an offering of gratitude soon,_ she thinks as she nods to the herd-guard overseeing the staked-out area. _Thank Lady Windborn for the gift of having both Tarma and Warrl in my life…_

The horses are resting quietly, lifting their heads slightly when she approaches and letting her scratch up under their manes. “Sisters of my sister,” Kethry murmurs, feeling the steady warmth of their hide and listening to the soft huff of their breath. Tomorrow they would take the battlemares to breed, and in the turning of the wheel of seasons, bring new life into the world. Then more turnings beyond that, life and learning and work and words moving forward, every one with their place, every one giving their gift.

She lets herself slip into mage-sight and looking at the web of life energy spreading throughout the camp. Everything linked together, from the smallest mouse in the grass to the herd-riders out with the cattle at the farthest edge of the grazing lands.

She feels the goddess’ presence again, beyond and above it all, keeping a distant and watchful eye on everything. She can see patterns in the web of energy, and spreading out beyond it, perhaps covering the whole world. 

Kethry remembers the words that Tarma’s goddess spoke to her long ago— _I am just another face of your own Lady Windborn_. She can see the shape of something just out of reach, can feel herself teetering just on the edge of understanding something massive and beautiful and so, so simple in its heart of hearts—something just beyond her and just beneath her fingertips at once—

A sharp nudge catches her in the ribs, knocking her thoughts askew. She rubs the spot and turns to glare at the horses. “Which one of you did that? I could almost see it.”

They all blink at her in sleepy indifference, and she sighs, tucking her hair behind her ears and turning to make her way back to the tent. Kethry knows herself well enough to know that the moment is gone for tonight, and all the striving and pushing herself in the world won’t bring it back into focus. She’ll just have to wait until the thought and vision come around again.

There’s so much else to do until then, after all. All the work and magic and thinking and laughing and love that makes up a life in the world. She can’t wait to sleep, and wake, and begin another day.

“I’m glad to be alive,” she breathes out toward the stars. “I’m glad to be here, and part of this. Part of the life of Tarma’s Clan, of all of it.”

She feels a warm glow from the she’enedra bond, lit up with Tarma’s love and the power of the Star-Eyed. She sends her own love back and walks to the tents, knowing that in this moment, they’re all exactly where they’re supposed to be.


End file.
